<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Bloody or Beautiful by Archedes</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22627726">Bloody or Beautiful</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archedes/pseuds/Archedes'>Archedes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff and Angst, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Other</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 09:20:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,543</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22627726</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archedes/pseuds/Archedes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first time, Byleth can honestly admit that they are hopeful—that, perhaps, their own future, something they had never previously cared for, is one worth looking forward to.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Bloody or Beautiful</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>surprise, bitches. i bet you thought you'd seen the last of me.</p>
<p>tw for child death</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>
    <em>Sunrise/Sunset</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The castle in Fhirdiad is nothing compared to the massive, sprawling expanse of the old monastery. It is compact and mostly utilitarian, reflecting the traditional views of Faerghus and its wintry denizens. There are comforts, of course: large, ornately-embroidered tapestries to keep out the northern chill; beautiful, arching windows—some bearing stained glass, some not; two wings that are no less magnificent for their comparatively small size—one meant for the royal family and the other for their honored guests; and a sunroom attached to the back of the castle on ground level, facing the barrens of Faerghus where the very first rays of morning peek just before flooding Fhirdiad with light.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sunroom is where Byleth finds him the night after they have liberated the capital. Unlike in the morning, the sunroom is bathed in shadows come nightfall, catching not a single dying gasp of the sun as it dips beneath the horizon. Dimitri sits there in the dark, and—for once—not even Dedue is there to relieve his solitude. When Dimitri had disappeared from the small celebration feast, it prompted Byleth to search—and to worry. Finding him like this rings too close to how things used to be: when Dimitri would seldom leave the dilapidated cathedral, knelt at an altar of rubble while he listens carefully to long-dead voices.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But when he speaks, his voice is lucid—if not heavy with an exhaustion the likes of which Byleth themselves has experienced only once before, in the wake of Jeralt’s murder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I’m all right.” Dimitri’s exhaustion, however, is a remnant of How Things Used To Be: a small reminder that normalcy has yet to return for him, and a warning that it may never return at all. For all intents and purposes, the man Byleth had first met in Remire is dead and buried, alongside his father and their father and countless others, leaving </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dimitri behind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re sitting alone in the dark, Dimitri,” Byleth points out quietly. Their movements through the sunroom are deliberate and slow, making it clear to him that they are approaching. He can still be twitchy at times.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dimitri laughs, and the sound is hollow. “Ah...so I am. I...hadn’t really noticed.” He turns his head—what modicum of twilight coming in from the windows hits his eyepatch, leaving his remaining eye unseen. Impossible to gauge the type of mood he is in. Still, Byleth takes it as a good sign when he shifts over, motioning for them to join him on the chaise lounge.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Silence stretches out between them, and despite the darkness Byleth can tell that he is groping for what to say and failing to find the words. As of late, Dimitri carries himself like a guilty hound waiting to be reprimanded, yet one that may still bite should any dare try. Empathy and compassion do not come easily to Byleth, but they have to try—if they know anything at all, they know that much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You should rest. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow,” they say as gently as they can manage, turning their head just enough to keep him in their periphery.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A heavy sigh comes in response, and Dimitri sags forward, his forearms braced on his knees as he almost curls in on himself, seeming to deflate entirely. “...I know. If only it were that easy. There is...much left to be done. Sometimes it feels as though defeating Edelgard is least among them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Byleth measures the weight of his words, trying to decipher the emotions behind the fatigue. They come up short. Ignoring the pang of frustration that hits them, they move a bit closer, leaning forward to try and catch his eye. “Such as…?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Me.” At their look of confusion, he quickly amends: “To be fit to rule Faerghus. To serve as its king. I used to be so...eager to ascend the throne. But now?” He sighs, digging the heel of his palm into his eye, rubbing at it roughly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah.” Five years is a long time, after all—particularly for Dimitri, who had spent that time shrouded in isolation and blood. More beast than man, as Felix might say. But Faerghus cannot afford him the time to recover. Byleth nods in understanding. “...No matter what comes, I’m with you.” And they try on a smile—smiles come easier to them now, despite everything. Dimitri lowers his hand, offering a hesitant smile of his own in return.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...And I you.” On a whim, they lean over, bumping their shoulder lightly against his. He sits up a bit straighter, though his face remains downcast and shadowed. Before he can scrub at his eye again, however, Byleth slips their hand into his as he lifts it. For a moment, Dimitri freezes, and then—slowly—he lowers it, palm-up, his fingers curling gently around them. His glove is cool to the touch, and they give it a squeeze. “...Thank you, Professor.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Closed Doors</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Professor!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sunlight filters down into the courtyard, warm and bright. Clear skies overhead. Byleth pauses and turns, and here comes Dimitri—breathless and disheveled. When he stops before them, he quickly tries to tame the mess that his hair has become, running his fingers impatiently through the golden strands. He must have run halfway across the monastery to be panting that way. Byleth frowns.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s the matter?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He smiles apologetically as his breath finally returns to him. “Forgive me; I wanted to catch you before class. You are a surprisingly difficult person to find, you know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Byleth deigns not to mention that they have always tended to make themselves as inaccessible as possible—especially now that they have been roped into a teaching position. Three months at Garreg Mach had done little to warm them. “Well. Here I am.” Byleth shrugs before shifting the books and papers in their arms.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dimitri blinks. “Oh! I—Please, allow me to help you, Professor.” And before Byleth can say a word, he is taking some of their burden, hugging Byleth’s things to his chest and offering no room for complaint. They resist the urge to roll their eyes, but still, they give over a few of their items without fuss. “It might help to invest in a bag. It would certainly make transporting all of your belongings much easier for you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Probably,” Byleth agrees vaguely, and they carry on in the direction of the Officers Academy. “What did you need again?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Their bluntness is clearly throwing him for a loop, but that only makes them more inclined to continue doing it. “O-of course! My apologies. You see, I was hoping you might agree to indulge me in some extra tutoring. I acknowledge that I cannot exactly compensate you for it, but—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Why? You don’t need it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dimitri’s brows knit together, and he looks startlingly akin to a kicked puppy. “...Professor, your mastery of the sword is unparalleled, as far as I have seen. And that is no meager compliment! Not to mention your ability to compose and adjust strategies in the midst of combat—as you did during the mock battle. There is only so much I can learn from you during class, after all, which is why I thought to ask for private tutoring.” By the end of his explanation, he appears sheepish, even going so far as to rub the back of his neck with his free hand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Byleth stops abruptly, and it takes a moment for Dimitri to realize. He looks back at them, bemused, and they level him with a measured look. “Listen. I know what you’re trying to do.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dimitri flushes at once, and—suddenly—he can no longer meet Byleth’s gaze. His eyes drop to his feet, and he takes a great interest in the shine upon his boots.  “...You do?” Try as he may, he cannot conceal </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> of the nervousness from his voice. It does not quaver, exactly, but there is a definite forced quality to the coolness with which he responds to Byleth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Byleth shakes their head. “Extra lessons won’t help you learn faster. There are some things that only come with time and experience. You can’t force it. All you’ll succeed in doing is burning yourself out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dimitri opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. For some reason, he seems relieved. “I...yes. You are absolutely right, Professor. How foolish of me.” He laughs, but the sound is awkward and—again—forced. “Well then! Are you heading for the Black Eagles’ classroom? Let me drop these off for you. I just remembered a meeting with Professor Hanneman that I must attend. Thank you for your time, Professor, and I am sorry to have bothered you!” Before Byleth can say anything further, Dimitri turns and quickly walks away, his posture and movements unnaturally stiff. Byleth frowns.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Atonement</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In all the chaos and grief and bloodshed at Gronder Field, when the knights of Faerghus reconvene in the wake of their solemn victory, they soon realize that Dimitri is not among them. Gilbert is quick on the uptake, organizing groups to search the expansive patch of land that had been their latest battlefield. Even now, it is littered with the corpses of friend and foe alike, alongside their fallen weapons that appear like discarded toys—dolls left strewn haphazardly upon the floor of a child’s bedroom. Occasionally, there is a horse or pegasus, and most have the bodies of their riders crushed beneath their dead weight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Byleth opts to search alone. Gronder Field is a mess, surrounded on all sides by thick treelines. Here and there, Byleth recognizes felled soldiers, and by the fifth familiar face they have decided to look down only when strictly necessary. The depth of emotion welling up within them is disturbing—far too alike five years past, when they had been forced to hold their father’s dying body in their arms. Death is something Byleth has doled out in spades, and never once did they stop to wonder if their latest mark had </span>
  <em>
    <span>deserved</span>
  </em>
  <span> it. But since their tenure at the Officers Academy, things have become significantly trickier for them. No longer can they turn their nose up at death and disregard it as a problem distinctly not their own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In truth, what Byleth truly fears is looking down and finding Dimitri’s corpse at their feet. They refuse to dwell on that thought any further.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Byleth heads to the southwest corner of the field, where Edelgard and Hubert had made their retreat. At a guess, Dimitri tried to pursue them, to whatever level of success Byleth would all too soon discover. They bite back the dread weighing heavy in their chest and surging up their throat like bile. Alone, and in his state, Dimitri would make easy prey for Edelgard’s axe, and Byleth knows she would not hesitate to strike him down. Something like panic mixes in with the dread, and Byleth could almost imagine a heart pounding heavily in their chest. That is a normal reaction, yes? That any person would have, when faced with such a prospect? But as always, their eidolic heart lies still and silent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When they find him, he is hunched over on his knees, his filthy fur ruff and hole-riddled cloak soaked thoroughly in crimson. He is unmoving, and Byleth’s throat tightens at once—dead. Dimitri’s corpse. Without thinking, their feet carry them to his side, and the bloodsoaked earth makes small, wet noises with each step. But as they near, Dimitri lifts his head, and the light of the dying sun catches his red-splattered face and haggard eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Byleth pauses, sucking in a deep breath as relief floods through them, the dread chased away by an intense giddiness. They grin—manic—down at him, but if he registers the gesture, he does not show it. “You’re alive,” Byleth tells him, crouching on the ground beside him. Without thinking, they reach out, palming his jaw, holding his face in their hand while they take him in. His nostrils flare, but he makes no attempt to stop them, nor does he shy away from the touch. His skin is cold, Byleth observes as they turn his head towards them. “Dimitri, let’s go back. The others are—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Glancing down, Byleth finally notices what he is hunched over. It is the body of a small girl—no older than seven—crumpled and covered in so much blood to the point where it is impossible to discern how she died. Byleth’s brows knit together, and they look back to Dimitri: his eye is half-lidded and clouded, his mouth downturned. It must be the daughter of one of the many farmers who tend to Gronder, caught up in the battle and unable to escape before the fighting broke out. Dimitri cradles her gently in his arms. Byleth’s smile immediately disappears, the odd giddiness draining from them until they are left feeling tired and empty and sad. “Dimitri.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t,” he growls, ripping his head out of Byleth’s grasp and clutching the girl to his chest, his face downcast.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...She’s dead, Dimitri. We can’t do anything for her now.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” For the first time, Byleth notices that he is shaking—his shoulders tremble, down to his arms as he tries to keep his hold on the body. With the way he is looking down, his hair conceals his face from them. His voice trembles, too.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Carefully, Byleth puts their hands over Dimitri’s, loosening his grip on the girl. He allows it, and as they lift his arms away, the body shifts to lay back down upon the dirt. Her eyes are open—glassy and green, staring blankly up at the quickly darkening sky. Byleth takes a moment to close them before guiding Dimitri once more, turning him towards them and away from the girl. With their fingers wrapped softly around his wrists, Byleth can feel the way he shudders in their grasp. They don’t need to see his face to know that he is crying.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What to say? What </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> be said? Byleth presses their lips into a thin line, and they slide their hands up to grip his biceps. The touch seems to undo him, and he lurches forward until his forehead rests upon Byleth’s shoulder. He moves, clutching at them, fingers knotting in the places where their tunic peeks out from their bloodstained armor and pulling them close. The hug—if it can even be called that—is desperate and despondent. Stricken. Byleth can feel the warmth of his tears wetting the side of their neck as he curls into them, face pressed to their bare skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His shoulders are wracked with the force of his sobbing, but he scarcely makes a sound. Dimitri shudders and, without really thinking, Byleth gathers him in their arms. They say nothing. There is nothing </span>
  <em>
    <span>to</span>
  </em>
  <span> say. Byleth cannot assure him that things are okay, or that he is okay, or that anything will be okay again. So they merely hold him and let him shed his tears for this dead child and for himself and for what he has lost and will never regain. At the end of this day, this girl—among countless others—has lost her life because of the war. Because of them. And Dimitri knows this and bears this weight more keenly and with more devotion than anyone else.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a time, Byleth shifts, their joints stiff and aching from the awkward position and from bearing Dimitri’s weight. “...That’s enough, now,” they murmur softly, their cheek pressed to his temple. With steady hands, they grip Dimitri by the shoulders and tug him away. His arms go limp as he releases them, his eye swollen and red, face tearstained and pale. Byleth brushes some hair out of his face, frowning, but he turns from the touch. Brushing Byleth’s hands away, he stands, pulling his cloak around himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By now, the sun has all but set, and the sky above is a deep, dark purple. It will be difficult to find Gilbert and the others in this darkness. Byleth gets to their feet as well, and as they are wiping the dirt from their trousers, Dimitri says, “I must kill Edelgard. She cannot be allowed to live. She cannot be allowed to get away with this.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A flash of anger—white and hot—lances through Byleth, and they grit their teeth. “That girl could have been killed by anyone—Kingdom </span>
  <em>
    <span>or</span>
  </em>
  <span> Empire. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Enough</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Dimitri.” His eye locks onto them, and he glowers imperiously. Yet before he can bite back, Byleth continues, a sharp edge to their tone: “You’ll drown us all in your grief, if you keep carrying on like this. Let it </span>
  <em>
    <span>go</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Byleth regrets the words the moment they leave their mouth, and they shut their eyes for a moment, hands balling into fists at their sides.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You—” Dimitri cuts himself off, his own anger doused almost immediately. He deflates, squeezing his eye shut as he turns away from them. Byleth recognizes this: they won’t get another coherent word out of him for the rest of the night. He has turned inward, to himself, and only time would draw him back out to the waking world, in what small capacity he can still recognize it. When Dimitri opens his eye again, it is hooded and dark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Byleth flicks their own hair out of their face. “Come on,” they mutter, and with a gentle hand pressed between Dimitri’s shoulder blades, they begin guiding him back to the Kingdom army.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>— </span>
</p>
<p>
  <b>
    <em>Bloody or Beautiful</em>
  </b>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Fort Merceus has expansive ramparts spanning the entire breadth and width of the fortress. Everything about it is labyrinthine, built to confuse and confound any who manage to break inside. It is no small feat that Dimitri has managed to find the very wall Byleth is standing upon, eyes cast out in the direction of Enbarr whose lights could be seen glinting like earthbound stars. On the eve of the final battle, everyone is steeling themselves in their own particular ways. For Byleth, they are taking what time is left to reflect.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>By tomorrow’s end, Edelgard will be dead, and Byleth will have the blood of one of their students—one of their friends—on their hands. It is a thought they have been putting off for nearly the full duration of the war, and now there is no avoiding the reality of what they will have to face. Despite everything that has happened and everything Edelgard has done for the sake of her bloody ambition, Byleth wonders—even now—if they will be able to raise a killing hand to her. It would be only too easy to assume Dimitri will take that choice away from them. Does it make them a coward—to desperately wish for him to take that burden for himself, just so Byleth does not have to suffer it? No longer can they kill indiscriminately, as they had during their time as a mercenary. Their heart, such as it is, cannot bear it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“The end is finally in sight. ...I thought you’d be happy,” Dimitri says in way of greeting as he approaches them. His tone is light—friendly—and he stops at their side, shoulders only just brushing as he turns and follows their gaze out to the glittering of distant Enbarr. For once, he is not in his usual armor, instead favoring a wool shirt and slacks. Despite everything, he looks </span>
  <em>
    <span>better</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Not the same, but he is recognizable as the man Byleth knew all those years ago. They smile, in spite of everything.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t know if I’ll even be happy tomorrow, after it’s all over,” they admit, opting for honesty. Dimitri nods in understanding, before he moves, turning around to lean against the rampart’s parapet with his back to Enbarr. It draws Byleth’s eye away from the city, and in return they are treated to a small, gentle smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Talk to me?” he offers. The hesitation is knee-jerk, and Dimitri picks up on it at once. But he does not push.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Talking had never been one of Byleth’s strong suits. They scarcely uttered a word to anyone other than Jeralt before arriving at the monastery. Talking about their </span>
  <em>
    <span>feelings</span>
  </em>
  <span>? Out of the question entirely. The only one who had ever been privy to them was Sothis, and she knew without Byleth ever having to explain. It was nice, in a way. But her voice no longer reaches them, leaving Byleth to struggle with putting words to still-unfamiliar emotions. “I don’t...want Edelgard to die. Or Hubert, for that matter,” they finally say. “I’m not sure how I’ll live with myself after the battle. I’m not used to...losing things—people. I’m not used to grieving. Before Garreg Mach, I...” They gesture helplessly, “...never cared much about anything, I suppose. Not myself. Not anyone else.” Feeling stupid and childish, they avert their eyes from Dimitri.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I see…” Dimitri shifts, trying to angle himself in a way that would allow him to catch Byleth’s gaze. But they are adamantly looking away, and after a moment’s pause, he lifts his hand to grip their jaw, turning their face back towards him. His touch is warm—Byleth cannot remember ever feeling his bare hand before. Calloused and rough from years of swordwork. “Losing people, grieving...those are not things anyone gets accustomed to. Not really. Even I...” he trails off, his words failing him, and he makes up for it with a short, humorless laugh. “But if I have learned anything, it is that life goes on. The world and the people in it continue living, regardless. I find that comforting—a little, at least.” His voice is warm. Fond. Comforting.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I’m sorry. I know you’re probably feeling the same way about this.” Dimitri is still holding their face; Byleth is intensely aware of it. His hand moves slightly, cupping their cheek instead. Beneath the melancholy, Dimitri seems enthralled by the touch, his gaze flicking between his hand and Byleth’s eyes. It is...not unwelcome. Ever since Fhirdiad, their interactions have grown more familiar: exchanging these easy touches with each other. But this is different; Byleth can recognize that much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I take solace in the knowledge that you will be with me, when we finally confront Edelgard. That has made it a great deal easier,” he admits. “I hope...having me by your side comforts you, too. You have done so much for me; it is my sincerest wish that I can one day repay the favor. Having you around makes me feel...happy. Indescribably so.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Something swells within Byleth’s chest, and, for some strange reason, they feel like crying. Emotions blending together in such a way that they struggle to comprehend them all, and it overwhelms them. This must translate to their face, for a look of mild alarm crosses over Dimitri’s countenance. “Forgive me. I did not intend to—”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Byleth shakes their head. “No, it’s…” In truth, they have no way of putting it into words—what they would like to convey to him. It distresses them in a way they can scarcely understand. To be overflowing with emotion—to lack the right words for them: this is something distinctly new to them. They have never had so much to say that they feel they might burst. So instead, Byleth does what they can, lightly touching the back of Dimitri’s hand and turning their face just so. At the base of his thumb, Byleth presses their lips. It isn’t perfect, but it’ll do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dimitri inhales sharply. All at once, something changes. Something breaks, and Byleth is not given the time to wonder if they made a mistake by crossing this line. He closes the distance between them, moving his hand so that he can capture their mouth with his own. Though Byleth arches up into the kiss, the pressure in their chest only mounts, and they find themselves desperate for relief. Mindlessly, they move their hands to the back of Dimitri’s head, threading their fingers through his hair as they clutch him to them. This vulnerability, too, is new to them, but they have no thoughts to spare it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The kiss turns bruising, and somewhere along the way Byleth finds themselves standing in front of Dimitri, pressing into him with their entire body, his arms wrapped tight around them. They bite at his lip, and he makes a strangled noise deep in his throat. It helps, so Byleth does it again, and again, until Dimitri is forcing his tongue into their mouth. Eyes squeezed shut, they relax a bit in his arms, despite the intensity of everything. One hand drifts down, fisting itself in the front of his shirt while the other remains tangled in his hair. Every point of contact is unbelievably warm, and that helps, too. Byleth pours everything they do not have the words for into this kiss and every small, subsequent kiss—every confused feeling densely packed within their chest, right beside their silent heart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Gradually, Byleth works off that frantic energy, calming in their fervor. When the kiss finally breaks, they breath in tandem—heavy, yet content. Peeking an eye open, Byleth—even in such close proximity—can see how red Dimitri’s face is. They smile absentmindedly at that, gently combing their fingers through his hair while they stand there, entangled as they are, Dimitri pinned between Byleth and the parapet. He doesn’t seem to mind, his hands settling along their lower back while they tuck their head beneath his chin, not quite tall enough to press their brow to his as they might have liked. Perhaps the gesture surprises Dimitri, but after a brief moment’s hesitation, they feel his cheek against the top of their head.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When the time finally comes, it is Byleth who breaks the silence. “Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dimitri laughs a little, and the sound is breathy and light. Carefree in a way that causes Byleth’s chest to clench again. They press their face into his collar, hands moving to rest upon his shoulders as they take him in. Together like this, Byleth can almost forget what is to come. “Don’t be,” he murmurs before kissing their hair. “You merely surprised me, is all.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Byleth smiles a little at that, and they lift their chin just enough to peer over Dimitri’s shoulder—to Enbarr. Another comfortable silence stretches out between them; Byleth, at least, is content to leave the talking until after the morrow’s battle. After the war, when they can both—finally—lift their heads and gaze ahead, with nothing holding them back. The weight of their grief and their regrets will follow them into the future, but the prospect does not seem so daunting to Byleth anymore. For the first time, they can honestly admit that they are hopeful—that, perhaps, their own future, something they had never previously cared for, is one worth looking forward to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“...I’d like to go see my father, when this is over,” they murmur, the words spilling out unbidden. Much has changed; Byleth figures Jeralt would like to know about it—to know that they will be okay after all. “Would you come with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Dimitri hugs them just a little tighter. “I’d like that.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p><a href="https://twitter.com/divinedeaths">follow my twitter for fic-related updates.</a> also do not ask me about overwatch.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>